


Instinct

by josephina_x



Series: Dimension 46’\>>A [3]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Feral Ford, Gen, One Year Later, Post-Series, Post-Weirdmageddon, See You Next Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-16 00:46:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15425313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/josephina_x/pseuds/josephina_x
Summary: Ford is confused, and he’s in trouble. His instincts aren’t telling him the same thing his intellect is, and that’s bad.





	Instinct

**Author's Note:**

> Fic: Instinct  
> Fandom: Gravity Falls  
> Pairing: n/a  
> Rating: PG-13  
> Spoilers: through the end of the series, and some of the books (Journal #3)  
> Summary: Ford is confused, and he’s in trouble. His instincts aren’t telling him the same thing his intellect is, and that’s bad.  
> Disclaimer: Not mine, not for profit.  
> AN: Still lovin’ the Feral Ford AU :)

\---

He shouldn’t have fallen asleep.

Ford knew this was Bill Cipher. He knew it. He _did._ He knew it, and knowing that this was a supposedly-”different” Bill Cipher should _not_ have made a difference. He was likely the same in all the ways it truly mattered.

But…

He didn’t smell like Bill. ...He smelled as human as he looked -- which was very. His scents were of mild detergent and dirt and grass and dust, and for some reason he had a very faint scent of _Mabel_ about him -- of skin and sweat, not just shampoo -- which just confused the issue further. He also had that milder sharp smell about him that Ford had always associated with _magic_ \-- unsurprising, given what had happened during their initial encounter earlier that day. But what he was curiously and completely absent of was the telling electric-ozone smell of Bill’s demonic power -- a scent that had hung about Bill’s physical form like a cloud during Bill’s Weirdmageddon.

He didn’t look like Bill, either. ...His form was human. He was light-skinned, had two working eyes -- slitted like a cat’s, yes, but not like a demon’s -- with irises of a human-normal shade of blue, and his hair was blue and black. -- _There wasn’t a single stitch of yellow anywhere on him._ He was even dressed in normal human-style clothing: wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt, of all things, right down to a pair of white socks and well-fitting scuffed-up tennis shoes. His wardrobe quite literally bore as little resemblance to any readily-available type of formalwear as was humanly possible of clothing, and there was a notable absence of any of Bill’s familiar accessories. The lack of bow tie, top hat, and cane was almost disturbing in and of itself, having been tied so tightly in Ford’s mind to his image of Bill Cipher that they’d seemed almost intrinsic to Bill’s personality. _Not_ seeing this Cipher hold to something that had been, to him, so uniquely characteristic to _Bill_ was… deeply concerning to him, to say the least.

He didn’t sound like Bill. ...Oh, his mannerisms of speech were similar, if not almost entirely the same, but his voice wasn’t anywhere close to being so high-pitched, and there was no two-tone echo. He hadn’t heard Bill laugh yet, but… he hadn’t heard Bill laugh yet. And that was concerning, too. The broad “eye-”grins and laughter that Bill usually devolved to at the drop of his missing hat were just as completely absent from his manner thus far. And beyond the ranting he’d done at the start, Bill had been downright reserved in his speech. He’d actually done more _growling_ at Ford, by this point, than spoken to him in actual words.

He didn’t even act like Bill. ...so far, that is, but that in and of itself was something that stood out enough to have Ford sitting up and taking notice. It was, in fact, worrying enough to Ford that even if the rest hadn’t been any different, it still would have stood out all on its own. Because Bill hadn’t tossed out at any one of them even a single solitary smile. He hadn’t shot out an edged comment or made a laughing joke at anyone else’s expense -- not yet. He hadn’t laughed _at all_. He wasn’t excited at being out of the Nightmare Realm and about. He wasn’t curious at the differences of the dimension he’d found himself in. He wasn't enjoying himself in the slightest, as far as Ford could tell. He was just… _mad_... and _barely_ keeping it under wraps and under control.

 _This_ Bill was _angry_ , and _sulky_ , and _short_ with them, and _rude_ , and _snappish_ , and… he didn’t seem happy at all. Ford kept finding himself circling back to the thought, over and over again: he hadn’t seen Bill smile or laugh yet, not even once. --And yes, it had only been a hour or two since he and the other Stanley had arrived, but… this was _Bill_. ...Or it was _supposed_ to be.

It was _so_ different that it had to be a deliberate ruse on Bill’s part. It had to be a trap. _Had to be._ And yet…

And yet.

…He didn’t feel like Bill, either. And as odd as it was to even _think_ that -- for Ford to realize and admit that that was now something he now knew -- it was true. Bill had taken on a physical form during Weirdmageddon, and he’d captured and manhandled Ford during much of it. His hands had been rough, with an alien texture to them, and he’d not been anything like gentle with Ford in the slightest -- rather the opposite, in fact. Ford really _didn’t_ like thinking about it, but...

The contrast was there, and it was striking. This Bill had actually… eventually... _fallen asleep_ right where he’d been sitting on the grass out in the backyard of the Shack; he’d tilted right over at a light poke to collapse sprawling across the ground. The dream demon had been sleeping, and he _hadn’t_ woken up at this not-so-gentle treatment. And when Ford had wondered at this, and just _had_ to check to see if Bill was _really_ and truly _asleep_ , and had inched closer, and closer, and closer, and then far **FAR** too close, leaning over him to look down at his hidden face… Bill had rolled over in his sleep and curled right up into him like a _child_.

Ford had, of course, startled a bit, and tried to back away, but when he’d felt a tug, he’d paused; and when he’d looked down to realize that Bill had gotten ahold of the front of his turtleneck sweater with the fingers of one hand, he’d hesitated; and when he’d tried to pull away from the demon more slowly and heard the sleepy, restless noise of complaint that Bill had made next, he’d stopped, blinking. When he’d tentatively moved forward in response, closer to Bill again, just to see what Bill would do, and Bill had shifted his body even closer to him to outright _cuddle_ him in his sleep, making what Ford could only classify as a _pleased_ sort of noise emanating from the back of his throat as he’d done so… was it any wonder that Ford had _let_ him do it? He’d been acting like a _small child!_

But he really shouldn’t have fallen asleep himself. He’d had no excuse for that.

Ford’s senses should have been screaming at him from the very beginning. And yet… the only thing that had been screaming at him had been his head, not his body -- his thoughts, not his instincts -- because his instincts had been completely silent. His mind had been screaming at the rest of him to WAKE UP NOW, perhaps for that sole reason. Because it had to be a trap. Because he should know better.

Because when was the last time that he’d felt so entirely at-ease around a complete stranger? --Had he ever? Even _before_ the portal?

Bill was angry, and Bill was far far too intelligent for anyone else’s good, and Bill was not one to be trifled with.

But Bill was _also_ acting like a child, and exhibiting clearly _childlike_ behavior. Something had happened that Bill hadn’t liked, so he’d thrown a tantrum and physically worn himself out. When Stanley had been firm with him, Bill hadn’t attempted to resume or repeat the bratty behavior; he’d simply sulked a bit instead. When Bill had gotten too tired, he’d simply fallen asleep. And while he’d been awake, Bill had outright turned his head and looked around to locate Stanley’s presence, if he lost track of him for more than a minute, _every time that that happened_. Every single time that Ford had harassed him, purposefully trying to push Bill to lose his temper -- to call him out on what had to be a bluff and find that dividing line that should have been easy to find and harry Bill into crossing -- Bill had looked to _Stanley_ for guidance.

Ford had seen when Stanley had given Bill the ‘go-ahead’, very subtly, via his reflection in the Shack’s glass windows, and then Bill had gotten a worrying gleam in his eye and… Bill _hadn’t_ gone for his magic.

Ford knew he had it. He’d seen Bill ‘pull it out’ on display when he’d first pulled his own electric gun, blue waves of it dancing around his hands and lighting up his eyes, before both Stanleys had managed to physically pull them each back away from each other and initially calm them down somewhat -- at least at first, before adrenaline-fueled fight-or-flight was edged out by highly-panicked thought-and-reason that hadn’t been much better. He’d seen Bill mad enough to let off actual sparks -- and those motes of pure power _had_ to have been intentional, Bill wouldn’t just waste energy like that unintentionally for no reason -- and their loss _hadn’t_ been the largest contributing factor that had led to Bill’s fatigue, either. _That_ had been the pacing and breathlessness.

Bill had magic. And from what Ford had gathered from his observations thus far, he had a _lot_ of it currently at his disposal. But the first thing Bill had done when he’d gotten the ‘okay’ from Stanley had _not_ been to use it, when Ford had next made a ‘run’ at him. Instead, he’d turned his head and reached out his neck to _SNAP_ his teeth at him!

It had had Ford aborting his run to veer off to the side, startled, instead of pushing Bill over again where he sat.

Ford had slid to a halt and stared. Bill had given his a narrow-eyed glare and hunched his shoulders.

And then Bill had pounced at _him_ , hands-first, fingers splayed.

Ford had immediately leapt out of the way, easily, but...

In a very real sense, Bill _had_ been playing with him. But as far as Ford had been able to tell, Bill hadn’t actually been trying to hurt him. And Bill had only done it for short periods, stopping to sit back down and attempt to ignore Ford again, once they were more than six feet away from each other again -- well out of arms’ reach -- in a sort of huffy tired and annoyed dismissal of him. Bill had only gone after him in direct response to _Ford’s_ attempts, actually, and now that Ford thought about it, they’d also been something of a measured response, too. They’d always come out to be less than what Ford himself had tried to do to him in the first place, at the time, just then.

Bill _had_ been _playing_ with him, but it hadn’t been a cat-and-mouse game. If Bill had wanted to injure him, he could have used magic; if Bill had wanted to hurt him, he could have used words -- and yet he had done neither.

The Shack had a working unicorn hair barrier still, but Ford knew that it might potentially be a longshot for him to be able to dash past the perimeter in time before Bill managed to do something, if Bill went for his magic again and this time used it. Exposing himself to put himself out there and unmask Bill’s true intentions had been rather been the point in the first place; he’d wanted and needed to show Stan exactly what Bill was capable of, while his brother was safely inside the barrier. But instead, Bill had gauged the situation and reacted somewhat... _appropriately_ , under the circumstances, in a measured and open response. In a very real sense, Bill had shown that...

Ford blinked down at the demon, because he’d shown that...

He’d shown that…

That...

...

Ford had been testing him. To show that Bill wasn’t safe. That this ‘truce’ Bill had ‘agreed’ to was the vilest of lies. That it wasn’t safe to be around him, that he would hurt them at the very first opportunity. To show Stan that _Bill wasn’t safe_.

...But that hadn’t really been what had happened, had it?

Ford had been testing Bill, to see if he was safe. He’d been poking him, and prodding him, to see if he was a threat.

And Bill…

Ford shivered slightly, and slowly curled his arms in around Bill just a bit more. He listened to the soft, pleased noise Bill made in his sleep, as he did so, and shivered.

...Was it any _wonder_ that Ford’s instincts weren’t screaming at him? Thirty years on the other side of the portal had fully ingrained in him a broad set of survival instincts and behaviors that had worked, and worked well -- they’d kept him alive and in relatively one piece. But those survival behaviors all really just boiled down to ‘trust your instincts first, your senses second, and your intellect a distant third’.

Your instincts got you moving and out of the way of attack; they kept you from being killed and eaten, and helped you catch, kill, and eat other things. They were essential in the short term.

Your senses told you where the attack was coming from, and everything you needed to know about the environment you were in; they were harder to trick, and helped you avoid the predators that would kill you and eat you, while also letting you know what things were maybe good or maybe not-so-good to eat or drink or wear or use in some way. In the short and middle term, they were also essential.

Your intellect could be tricked, and it got in the way in potentially suicidal fashion in the short-term, but for long-term planning and survival it was a must; it helped you make plans that could help you keep yourself from ever getting in a situation where you could be killed and eaten in the first place -- helped you create tools like guns and nets and knives that could be used to kill and eat other things, or tools that could help increase your mobility like magnet guns and rope, or tools like clothing and shelter that could keep you safe and warm -- and those plans could also help you keep yourself fed and watered enough that you didn’t starve to death, too. It also helped you track down and find portals to hopefully better places, though they were also often just as bad or worse.

Your intellect was sometimes needed for corralling the two others when necessary -- but in Ford’s experience, when there was a conflict between them, it was almost always safer to trust the first two over the distant-third when dealing with highly-dangerous alpha predators that just wanted to kill you dead _now- **now-NOW**_ \--

...but those survival instincts were really only meant for dealing with predators of _less-than-human-level intelligence_. Ford's survival instincts were all hard-learned from his encounters with -- really meant and _built for_ \-- dealing with dangerous predators, yes. But in all his interdimensional travels, the most dangerous predators he'd come across _hadn’t_ been the intelligent species; generally, on those few-and-far-between occasions when he had found himself in proximity to members of an intelligent species, he’d either been able to avoid the worst of them, been ignored by them, or been able to somehow communicate his way around and out of great difficulty, one way or another, in almost all of those circumstances with very few exceptions. No, the times that he’d been most in fear of his life had been primarily on uncivilized worlds, out in the wilderness, and on those worlds he’d largely only ever found himself fighting for his life against predators that **weren’t** really capable of lying and deceit, that wouldn’t suddenly change their behaviors for purely mental or strategic reasons, that didn’t talk to and coordinate with other predators who were just as deceitful.

And _because_ those survival behaviors all really just boiled down to ‘trust your instincts first, your senses second, and your intellect a distant third’...

...and because Bill was _absolutely_ capable of all those very-intelligent strategic and deceitful things...

...he’d basically just gotten done _letting_ Bill convince his body, with all of its thirty-years of nearly-hardwired survival instincts, that Bill _wasn’t_ an immediate physical threat, when he actually absolutely _was_ , and that was working against him now.

...It _was_ working _against_ him now, right?

His instincts _were_ all wrong in this case… _right?_

Ford grasped Bill to his chest more tightly, reflexively seeking physical comfort, and he let out a confused whimper -- he couldn’t help it. ...And in response to this treatment, he felt Bill nudge his head against his chest, and he heard Bill let out a very soft humming _purr_.

And in the face of this, Ford found that his only viable response was to bury his face in Bill’s blue hair and try desperately not to cry.

He didn’t even know why he felt that way, just that he did.

\---


End file.
